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...That chance to touch the beautiful—perhaps brush it with your lips ... it's the august of all passions— an agape all would wish. That I might even kiss it—though it's reach beyond my grasp—instills in me that hope perceived, discounting protests gasped!
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...See, then I'm less than bitter! Song leavens stony hearts... Still, you can PROVOKE me, friend, and I'll take you quite apart! ...And YES, I will be charmless as I slap your smirking face; as I see it you’re the problem, frankly ... a discredit to the place.
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You make it hard to love you where your ethics are despised, where hypocrites, abounding, thumping— "bibles"—ooze and slide. Where psychopaths among you teach the least of us their fear and then cobble legislation—they've contrived—as profiteers.
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...Too, I wouldn't change a wit nor hair you'd gladly change on me. I'd not restrict your freedoms judging what you would, or be. ...But, you take that as a licence to impose your sullen will, assassinate intelligence, and intrude psychotic filth!
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Defending to a sullen death your right to be a fink, it's when I'm made against "the law," you'd try that tack, I think. Then everything is YOUR way—with "Jesus" in our schools. The schools rebuilt to prisons, and we live the *golden* rule. And not that smarmy bromide re: the "doing unto others", but it's "he who has the gold who rules," is where you are, I gather.
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... For that chance to touch the beauty I'd be blinded by its light; it just might be the face of God! I suspect this is our right. ...And blowing off "you can't do that" from persons tacking right—they prosecute their bitterness—I'll pay that price, all right?
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For, light there is aplenty when I see who earns their shame—when I cop to the perception who must lose so they can gain. And the LIES to keep it going so that we won't see the truth: that jealous lords contrive stern rules, but remain from them, aloof.
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There's more than Clinton's penis to the fabric of our lives. There is more that could engage us, and there's less we should despise.
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The skies are filled with "glowing lights"! They travel inner space! Some just might be people, but their provenance—what's their place? It just may be they're not from here, but we don't look—they disappear; made ashamed to ask good questions, so ridiculed, we make "retractions":
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"No one's going to laugh at me"! Unlike John Ford? You would be "free"...
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And that's the secret: lacking courage! Right or wrong protecting coinage; like, dumping on those far from here your toxic wastes... without a tear!
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Resent it when you're finally told? The message is then killed/controlled. All your shame is drained from you and splashed on those who cannot choose.
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The market losing chunks of value? Lost some savings, can't eat cashews? Someone has it, rest assured, it's stolen "fair and square," I've heard!
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The market "burps" and loses "value"? Someone wins... they've sold YOU out, though...
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A "secret service" selling crack ... to school kids yet without the knack for knowing when they're sacrificed... on Corporate alters... "price is right"!
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...Yeah, Ollie North could lie straight faced and earn my rage—profound distaste—that, welling up with righteous bile—the thousands that he harmed, defiled—he gave the 'right' their ammunition, "welfare cheats"—they had their mission. "Let them all decay—attrition!" Would that I could force contrition!!
Yet, I will be touching beauty... I've discovered in the fight! I revel in revealing what the truth shows with its light!
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...And as bitter as I'm made to feel or as angry as I get, I'm happy that I'm blessed to find what's real precludes all threat! So you can call me "woo-woo" and pretend I need a net; I'm not the one who's lying to himself, friend; you can bet!
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I'm not the one regressing to the dankness of my cave. I'm not the one with unshod feet, mere chattel or a slave. I'm not the one with bigotries and happy others keep their knees... so I can pray to concrete gods who do my bidding, on my nod!
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I am the one who's had enough! I'll spit right in your eye! Most send me their protection, friend; I soar or glide and fly! You rasp I have no humor, or that bitterness derides whatever makes my message give you lesions, welts, or hives.
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No, some read read my songs for pleasure, some say they sing of love. Some say they are inspired by example, churlish one.
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Some say that I have courage, that I write the way it is—Like Robert Crumb (cartoonist?), but I draw in words most miss.
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Some say that they laugh with me—blowing good beer through their nose—some touch and share their own songs or their haiku or their prose. One said he hopes his kid grows up to hear my kind of sound—so, dismissed as paranoiac? That dog won't hunt, I've found.
...Restore John Ford!
Amy Lubchansky
